I wonder what language you were speaking.
Was it pure ******-babble?
Were the words pure? Were you
reciting the words to a song?
Were you singing?
Could I see your beauty?

Were you even cognitive, were you thinking
underneath the muttering, heavy clamor of words
that jail-broke from your mouth and streamed into existence,
flooding the men and woman
carrying bags and carts under the
artificial lights and long lines

Did you think that *****-mumble-speaking all over a single Korean mother
and her young child
was imposing or threatening in anyway?
If you’d have taken a step closer to her I would have had to step in,
but she quietly left her place and dragged her shy looking
boy with her as he stared at the ground-
and we did our best
to turn you into a ghost, clattering pipes in the empty walls-

I wonder how many rugs you’ve been swept under.
How many times people have tried and failed to plug up the holes in
your leaky brain.
How many times you’ve tried help yourself.
How many times someone has failed you-
how many times you’ve failed someone else.
How many occasions
exactly like this
people ignored you as you rambled on about nothing in a Superstore like a broken record skipping unpredictable sick scratched torn

The music was on and the windows were down
The sun was shining on your face as we drove around
And we almost hit a couple seagulls and we were a little too loud
But other times it was okay to not make a sound
We stopped at Target since you missed your dad's birthday
So much for being a "responsible adult" and everything
And then you cracked a smile worth writing about and turned the wrong way
And even now I have nothing to say
But whenever I turn around I expect you to be there
And whenever I walk though Target I think of you in a bow tie and suspenders
And when someone calls out from the kitchen I imagine it's your voice
And then I accept that it's not since I don't really have a choice
Because someone put their stamp on you, babe you're spoken for
But whenever I think of you, I'll always think of a red bow tie in a superstore

It is now
when the evening draws in and the warmth of the day dances on the point of a pin when the chances of charity from strangers are slim and the thought of that cardboard..
...yes,
that cardboard on the sidewalk by the superstore outside, the pharmacy, on the street where your breath paints the air with a sense of foreboding, it feels like you're loading the twelve bore by the superstore, super, the pharmacy opens at six.

So
we drop in a coin or two tell you to get a job, tidy up, have some respect for yourself and then we forget you because we're not you and we never will be, but I know and so do you that you were 'we' once, until the crash came and the sky fell in and any warmth now dances on the point of a pin.

Tough to get back and harder to get in when you're out of the loop, it's like the World's caving in on you and all you can see are the special offers in the windows of the superstore by the pharmacy.

It is now in the moment where you could be where you once went, but you're intent on self-misery and self-loathing is your luxury.

The night drifts in on the wing of a prayer.

my conscious,
a spec on the corner of the Polaroid lens,
a heart lost in the reeds of dampened circumstance,
a hydrangea blooming in an untended field,
meditates upon itself
like a child lost
in a superstore.

--

an ocean wave mimics its predecessor
only to fall victim to aspiration.

what will crush upon my tired bones
as they chase sunsets
in a similar search
for meaning
?

The Fairy of the Silver Shop

Now all little fairies run out of things
Little clover soaps and even replacement wings.
Little vine laces for their little fairy feet
Little fairy apple pips as a midday treat.
So they all go to the silver shop for spares
And there is a fairy appointed that really cares
She has drawers filled with this and that
From silver bells to a rose petal hat
There is no such thing as money in fairyland
Every sale done with a shake of the hand.
The fairy of the silver shop everyone’s delight
Open every morning and closes at midnight.
The imps and elves enjoy the pleasure
Of rooting through such precious treasure.
Cherry stones and acorns make great pipes
And little lacy cobwebs make superior wipes
She stocks all these and very much more
It won’t be long before she opens a superstore.

I saw you in the bargain isle
sitting there in the cold, unwanted
to my sin, it was that you looked cheap
that I did endeavour to pay for you

Yet as I walk off with you in one hand
and my other hand holding all my shopping
with teeth of hunger I opened you
then with relief to my taste buds, enjoyed you

From that day to now
when at the superstore I prowl
I know you my wonder chicken
and will acquire you somehow

Your succulent juicy *******
your sweet sultana of the mystic east
not to mention the secret of your Apricot
in my tastes of a sandwich you have got the lot


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

I

in the dark starvation is real.
In dark, the emesis that fills my
cheeks is a currency I soak inside, animal
coinage, the fine
bulbous talons of Sepiidae.

Savagely, pelagically
starving made me rich when
Muskrat’s claws pull apart delicate meat.
Sad Spanish blood, I would like you
to panic about what has been lost.
No body, no crime—we are all cannibals; so the muskrat ate
flesh from the dugong-heavy remora

a parallax of sorts occurs
when I cannot find my own entrails—
perhaps they are ruminating in my gut—
boiling in my optic nerve.

But–I found little boys betting quarters for eating bowels
of goat. I was small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents
ride out this day on the waves—to succeed

foothills, grasses, and bath salts
by the creek. I got my quarters.
They asked me who made me as Mountain
Dew dribbled down my chest.
Infant teeth shattered my infant

fists and I did not eat divvied livers and
Victim watchers.
I wrote on
my protruding
viscera
proverbs from my ancient days


–extraordinary porch things, depleted
Phosphorus, and, on bendable limbs
I catalogued my windscraped knees.

How does one so young
become
so fed up with
hunger.

II

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift.
my ancient autopsy of starvation
made me feel gutted out
like Finished
ice-cream containers.
Made me able to hold my breath for
up to six minutes—starving
made me full of Household Gods and rickety
rosaries,

small brown globular clusters,
1 arcsecond of stress
capable of aligning me
with spring-loaded washers

I pop one nut—two—
Dental Work can be a rhizome,
ordering wee-soldiers from
its tethered nodes without
lactation, laceration, infection into
my sleep-deprived throat,
Choking on bird chirps
and x-ray bursts

below the cradle where
my android sleeps. I
have named him The Alabaster.
(Synching The Alabaster.)
The Alabaster–Allie–is a kind of boat
that I have hole-punched into; like
children of the deep I have hurled
nearby rocks into its lungs.
I have wrenched crumbs of my honeymoon
sidewalk, for a beast that panics.
I would trade
the last of the dugongs
for a muskrat’s smile–
now there exists a cult for Plastic
that the spotlights started,

and in the night it will not
end with the filter feeder sinking
to the depth of the imagined water column,
spinning in the Gyre disposal.
There isn’t a colander large enough
to sift through the pejorative waste.

I knew the night would be fraught.
It makes my fusiform body necessary for
transport. Makes Monophyletic solid consumption
trucks and ACE arms reach for
well-behaved spearfish bodies.
Makes days disappear and cold
seem like simmering.
Makes staying out of sight
a trim.

And I told them,
the Fusiforms and Balusters, that
the spearfish would devour the hero who comes
from afar bearing the gift of travel–
Tully-Fisher, with his cottonseed oil
“Manufactured in USA” in
compounding pharmacies.
He made me.
And I told him:

to Tell me to trawl for something less
plastic than my second
self–that I which exists
in Mary Poppins cannons, compact
intimacies, medical and portable–

to dig within my throat, discover a nurdle
that failed to photodegrade during the the day
the Sirenia sang,
the Muskrat gnawed off his leg and hand
fed it to the remora.
III

My mouth is parched
for diagnosis of rickets, for
my un-mineralized bones.
I need RR Lyrae, Statistical π,
population “II”s
to stand in for my night.
I need Sweetened,
Spoonfuls of BB pellets and
Spoonfuls of cepheids to help
the tetany go down,

myopathic infants and
ricket Rosary symbols only work
in sacrifice–In this sense,
I have constructed a panic
architecture–Craniotabes are too
vast. Prions and viroids have seeped
through,

Infections more than dreams,
for injured muskrats who yearn for
the last real mermaid’s smile,
or tears if that would smash open
the cluttered ocean and scatter
the unwanted hosts multiplying
in my spinal fluid.

In day there is no more starvation–
the remora bring me
Libations and admire
my six pack rings mobile.
My connective obligatory.

Under my fingernails are thin
crisps that may somehow create equilibrium.
Although I nibble them regularly
I can’t always swallow.
Surrounded by a dense fog of fleas
my tongue is itching.
My teeth are scratching, scraping
away the space that will always be there.


The antique aisle at the local international
superstore is handing out shriveled
heads of past didactic patients.
But I tell them it’s not what’s there that matters
it’s what’s not there. And in my case
there’s a surplus of nothing that
I can live without.

the art of war has been written
in our skin since the first day
we tasted air.
our bodies knew what to do
without instruction, the manual
was ingrained in our systems
before history was even a term.
we knew what struggling was and
the viciousness we'd follow to
feel satisfied within this
paper-hungry, corrupt involving,
power revolving circle of
soil and H2O.
green paper values beyond
human experience, holding its
own wealth above the truths
and acts of kindness.
we are lost now.
our journey to create solutions
and deflate violence, pollution,
and terrorism is counterproductive
when we are only trying to gain
access to fossil fuels,
advanced technology and
easy living.
the art of war is unavoidable with
its nuclear power reaching new
heights and alarming increases
in neighboring countries with
alternative motives.
people are not perfect, but yet
it is hard to use intelligence
towards innovated, structured
education and trying to revitalize
our dying environment or restoring
it to the way our ancestors knew it.
we are too curious now.
the devices we use daily are
hand held miniature and superficial
to honest thoughts even if you may
have the universe at your fingertips.
the art of war is within ourselves, with
the growing population of overweight
eight year olds - instead of gaining
knowledge about life by learning how
to use the imagination, creative
engineers are mass producing game
consoles and virtual worlds for the young
to push past the reality.
we want to be lost now.
society takes tragedies and sensationalizes
so there is just another portal to dig up
the fresh and uncover something bigger
than ourselves.
the art of war has been finalized with
456,495 troops estimated stationed overseas,
leaving at home their families.
our state of mind is grasping, like the hardworking
fathers in search for american made products,
yet can only find poor industry made objects
for $5.00 on the shelf of the local monopolized
superstore.
the art of war was born in us
with airtight top secret plans to defeat
another continent, but we all
swallow the voice to bring back
compassion for starving children and
focusing on the here and now.
the art of war is all around us,
the art we will never escape.

Is it just imagination, or
Is Wal-Mart running out of
**** to put on their shelves?
I swear.
(And I intend on cee-ceeing
Elizabeth Warren with this.)
So, you want to do something
About inequality in America?
So, you want to give the working stiffs,
A Fighting Chance,
Is that the name of
Your book, Senator Liz?
I’ve heard it all before:
It’s Hope & Change Redux, Babaloo!
(And don’t get me started on Osama Obama.)
Here’s my plan:
You go aisle to aisle in any Superstore
With a little notepad and pencil.
Every time you see some
Large plastic *******,
Realizing they sell
15 million of  ‘em every year,
All made by some ****-***** in China.
QUESTION: So, what do you do, Mr. Policy Wonk?
ANSWER: Federally-subsidize the
Building & Operation of a plant
Manufacturing that **** right here in Detroit.
Or Atlanta, or Hartford,
Cleveland or Fitchburg,
Or even Oakland,
Where San Francisco poor continue to squeeze.
(Don’t get me started on Urban Gentrification.)
Trust me on this:
AMERICAN JOBS
Will deodorize everything that
Stinks about The Economy.
“Capital Flight Gone Global:
Invest where Labor comes cheap.
Export those American jobs again & again.”
QUESTION: What’s the difference
Between a middle-class person
And a poor person in America?
A middle-class job,
*******!
But I digress.
I was sharing an observation:
Wal-Mart’s shelves are
Not as luscious, as they once were.
Gaps left for
PINEAPPLE CHUNKS,
With only CRUSHED PINEAPPLE
Cans in stock, e.g.
So much for that On-line,
Real-time,
Instant supply-chain,
Super-duper
Inventory system, Mr. Walton.
Arkansas wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Was it Mr. Sam?

I haven't yet
figured out
how to put into words
what it feels like
to be trapped in my own head.
I fear that's a fate worse than death.
My whole life
everything--
every single emotional pang--
has flowed from me;
through my pen,
on to paper.
Just like that:
A balloon of troubles
released into air.
Well I've been silent
too long now.
My emotional drain,
clogged,
without a single bottle
of Drain-O left on any
of the Superstore shelves.
I'm in the unforgiving chokehold
of Depression.
With a capital D.
"Write your feelings down,"
my counselor says to me.
"writing can be therapeutic."
I know, Doc.
Which is why I'm here
on this double stuffed couch,
instead of in the safety
of my apartment
with my ink filled sword
and leather bound shield.
No thesaurus can aid me.
Merriam Webster is at a loss for words.
What is a poet without poetry?
I'm as useless
as the g
in lasagna.
Scars line my wrist;
Feeble attempts
of liberating the feelings
by placing them saddleback
on droplets of blood.
Keeping an open mind
is hardest when
your mind is the vault
sealed away
in your Fort Knox skull.
The pill popping lethargy.
This rainy day sadness.
Somewhere inside me
a little poet waits out the storm.

Benedict watched
as Mrs Fairweather
hushed her mutt
and told him to get back

in its box
under the table
and ushered Benedict
into the lounge

and to take a seat
on the blue sofa
recently bought
she said her husband

was away
on a long haul
(truck driver
of some sort)

and that she’d like
to know more
about Benedict
than she knew already

he sat there listening
to her voice
coming through
from the kitchen

tea or coffee?
she asked
or something stronger?
coffee’d be fine

he said
looking at
the landscape prints
upon the walls

after a short while
she came in
carrying two cups
and set them down

and sat beside him
her red skirt rising
as she put one leg
over the other

tell me more
about yourself
she said
looking at him

sideways on
one hand resting
on her cheek
the other

on her thigh
what’s to tell?
he said
and she told him

what she wanted to know
how long since
his last kiss?
who with

and how
was his pecker?
(laughingly put)
and she said she’d seen

a photo of him
some where
and all the time
her hand went up

and down her thigh
(which caught his eye)
what is that aftershave
you’re wearing?

nice and kind of ****
she said smiling
he told her what it was
some stuff his mother’d

bought for him
from the superstore
he could smell her scent
as she neared him

musky overpowering
and laid on thick
his mother
would have said

he sipped his coffee
and she sipped hers
then she put on a record
of the Kinks

and danced
on her way back
to the sofa
wiggling her backside

and **** as she moved
and Benedict wondered
if he’d made a mistake
coming over

at that time of day
or any time at all
then she kissed him
and touched him

and it was suddenly
in the deep end of the pool
wondering if he’d not got
out of his depth

her lips pressing
in on him
her hands searching
for his pecker

her words uttered
in a low voice
as if drowning
but what if?

o don’t mind him
he won’t be back
for days yet
but what if?

but the but ifs
were drowned
in her kisses
and her hand

had plunge into cloth
and sought out
the pecker
and Benedict imagined

Mr Fairweather
hot tempered
from a long haul
unhappy with

this kissing
and hugging
and all
entering the room

just as his shy pecker
had been exposed
and in the hands
of his wife

but it was all
in his mind
no Fairweather came
or saw or spoke

just she and Benedict
and the mutt moaning
from the other room
and the new blue sofa

beneath them
and the Kinks singing
and sunlight filtering
through the half closed shutters

blueness of sky
and Benedict
sensing her
and wondering why.

I remember the ink you stuck under my skin.
You loved me you left me, so did it begin.
Your name is tattooed, lying under my skin.

You were the prince of ink.
A cuttlefish they said.
I have your name strung up my arm, but you and I are dead.

You drew pictures of love hearts and flowers.
Added your name,.
I sat in the parlour for hours and hours.
While you, the artist worked.
Weaving magic.
Sadly tragic.
Scars across my open heart.
When we left hand in hand.
The heavens poured their meagre scorn.
Those heart marks wouldn't wash away.
Never in a million would I ever be set free.
A Friday afternoon alcohol session,
My consort was the prince of ink.
He captured my arm, a permanent tag.
Labelled like a superstore, an advertisement upon his bag.
All the world, look where she's been.
Tattooed lady looks obscene.
(C) LIVVI

Mr Singh who does not sing or carry a tune too well is six foot six and has a beard,a little weird but I won't tell ,sells the most amazing things,
like the 'arrows and slings of discontent' and pent up frustrations by the score all sold in boxes from his 'Singh can't sing cash and carry superstore'
A lovelier man I've never met
with a set of false teeth that makes me smile,coloured blue (he says it reminds him of the Nile).

He made a pile of cash from some South sea bubble crash but is generous almost to a fault.
Worth his salt? I'll say he is
His name is known both far and wide
and that woman standing by his side,looking rather gracious with her eyes so green,has been known and seen as, Mr Singh's majestic Queen.

They're a lovely pair and very fair,
please let me introduce you.
Mr Brown meet Mr Singh and Mr Singh,Mr Brown has a carpet shop here in the town,his brother is a Draughtsman,
Craftsmen of a different breed all have a hunger and need to feed so Mr's Singh bakes little cakes which she sells on Sundays at Church fetes and car boot sales.

One day I'll be like the Singh's
I can't sing
can't carry a tune just need to stop gazing at the moon
and wishing my life away.

Step inside we'll find you everything you adore
bibles at a dollar, you can sell for much more
blind men who can see you
and the Galilean shore
at the 'Jesus can save you' downtown superstore.

There is Moses
and the stoners
tablets that you wish for,
there is water we turn into wine
and miracles galore
all you have to do is walk right in through the door
at the 'Jesus can save you' downtown superstore.

We've got Israelites, Mennonites
and
Egyptians in stock
we have a burning bush and also
we have sheep by the flock,
everything that you desire and perhaps a bit more

Welcome to the,
'Jesus can save you' downtown superstore

It's cold in here
Like a superstore with those giant freezers
How do they even keep those cold
With no doors
I guess lots of cold air circulation
Or little freezer elves
Happily blowing their icy breath
At the frozen bagels and crinkle-cut fries
But the latter is far less likely
I wonder though
What does the machine look like
The one that makes fries crinkle-cut
I think that's why they made that one show
The one that shows how everything is made
People get curious
And need a distraction
Let's see how
Leather boots
And Moon Pies
Are made today
Hand me a beer

Romeo
We met unexpectedly
On purpose
(By God's grace)
I knew it was fate
Because it started raining
Showers of blessings right?
That's what I thought
What can I say
I've become a hopeless romantic

He told me that I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen
And I believed him
Because he said it with the most honest brown eyes

He told me that he'd miss me when I'm gone
5 minutes into our conversation
And I whispered:"Too soon baby"

That day was the epitome of perfect
Because I met
The kindest, sweetest, most caring guy

He is honorable
Noble, like Elijah Mikhealson, from The Originals

**He is the man, that people spend their lives searching for
And he found me
In a boxed shape superstore
On a rainy Monday evening

A wakeful can rolls over the gutter, 'tis caught up the waking wind.
Outside the Asda, the not so superstore, where the doors are closed and the world is the same.
A painful world,  standing out in the rain.
It's a world where men in orange jumpsuits sit, they're waiting for rain.
Or pain, an escape almost knowing that freedom awaits at the makeshift pearly gates.
Drove past the docks with structures lit up, perceived as giant horses as if of troy, really huge cranes, but nothing like birds.
All desperate to see what's going on in the world as a matter of some kind of crazy urgency.
(C) Livvi

You were a cerulean boy with ocean eyes
A heart as complicated as the tides are high
I brought you home to watch an angel on tv
The sun was rising…you didn’t leave

I was an emerald man
With a broken plan
Oz in my heart, silly I know

A little sad and not of the clearest mind
Enraptured by you
My hopes were misaligned

///

A few days went by…

Things seemed good
A record played
Blue Film
Pasta
Wine
Fingers through hair

An invite to Christmas
Your mom wanted to meet me
Imagine that
Seems a little funny now

I picked you up from the airport
We tried on a hundred pairs of glasses
Took a cute photo by the bathrooms
How foreign now

Sick days in bed
I held a cool cloth to your brow
Ran my hands down your wet back
The fever broke while you slept

You sang countless melodies
Fingers on the keys
While I lay on the carpet
Quietly recording

Then there was the nightly routine
Superstore and cuddles
Laughter and jalapeño hands
****

You kissed my neck
Asked if it was good
It was good
So you turned away

You kept pressing your body against mine
Only to turn away
Over
And over
Again

I would wait until you were asleep to cry
In the bathroom
In the closet
In the dark

My heart was breaking
My mind confused
You looked lost
I felt used

An arbitrary argument over brunch
You put the car in park
We sat in silence
It was a little dark

Suddenly we are ending things
My tears start flooding
You were far away
Emotionless
That still stings

///

Lies like waves crashing on the shore
You’re so comfortable spewing them
Mold on blueberry cheese
A spore

A Scruffy “random play”
A Grinding “top”
A fake *** alt-identity
Hiding behind a screen
Stop

You didn’t see my gold
You couldn’t
I wanted you to try
You wouldn’t

I wonder if you’ll ever
Pull back the curtain and find
Your
True
Self
I hope you do
You deserve that
To be magic (again)

In December, I’ll remember
You
Your cerulean eyes
And our demise

I had a party last night yes I did. I lay in my bed thinking of what had transpired the night before. Laying here and thinking.

I was not in trouble no no no. In fact, I was getting a promotion at work and the best way to celebrate my promotion was to have a party.

Living in downtown east side was not a popular place but I was on the 12 Th floor of a condominium and my guests could access my parkade and we had security so inviting them to my party to my place was not an issue.

I had begun my shopping the day before after work on Friday. I wanted to make sure that everything I was buying was fresh and that I was not using anything that was stale or had outdated its expiry date.

I also wanted to get foods that were exotic to impress everyone. The best way to do this is to go to the Asian food aisle of Superstore and Costco. Oyster sauce sounds good, so does shrimp chips, but not to much exotic stuff, maybe some standard lays potato chips and yes dip. Chip dip, the stuff that the double dippers love. Not that anyone from our office is a double dipper but people who love dip.

I rectified this problem of double dipping by having, not one big dipping bowl, but to have to carry around miniature dipping bowls. Little personalized glass bowls only 5 oz each.

These dipping bowls were an absolute hit.

Salsa in three strengths. Medium, hot and extreme. The extreme will have to be my own combination of hot salsa and 1/4 teaspoon of Daves insanity sauce. Hot hot hot.

The hot sauces will have to be well labeled so I will have to use the same little dishes for dipping with the writing "Mild" "Hot" and "Hot Hot". For this, I use the sticky note pads from work.

I have to make sure I do not use the popular yellow notepads. But instead, use the less popular pink notepads which management don't mind you taking from the office.

I will also need a shrimp ring, the one that comes complete with seafood sauce in the middle.

I feel so excited that I have been here in this office for three years now and have not had this opportunity to host my fellow workers with food and drink and *** .... oh no *** just taste and enjoyment.

I want to make this a night to remember. I need this. I want to know I have made it. I want to impress the office with my wit and ingenuity and the one way to do that is with food.

I am not going to go on about the title of this post, a *** of tea. But it is the only thing that nobody touched at the end of the party. Nobody touched my *** of tea. It sat there the entire night without anybody touching it.

The party was a hit, or so everyone said when they left that Saturday night.

Most everyone had to call a taxi because it was a "BYOB". Ok so if you don't understand what that means it is... "Bring your own *****" Ok to simplify that to more people it means if you want to have hard liquor like beer wine or scotch *** or ***** you must bring your own.

The cost of the party, if I would have paid for all the *****, would have been an extra $500. Especially here in Canada.

So that morning when I awoke after the party the only thing left was the cold *** of tea.

So I took a long glass of ice from the ice left over in the freezer. I poured the cold tea left over into the glass then added two packets of cane sugar and to top it off I added a good healthy 2oz shot of Smirnoff ***** that was left over from my party.

I lay there on my sofa naked sipping on my cold drink. I was rubbing the cold glass on my head and wondering what everyone is going to say on Monday morning.

Take my money,
Let me be
Alone and free
Full of cavity.
Take my money,
Let me be
Grey and old
Working at a superstore.
Take all my money,
though I’m broke and poor
And my only other option is to be a *****.
Take my money
Protect it from theft
After all I am living in debt.

Me
on the jubilee
going West
as young men
do.

Not into the wide open spaces
they went years ago

Built on
filled up
choked
but
tokens of greenery
in the concrete canyon
scenery.

another not is not a lot
of passengers on board

seats for everyone
but I spoke too soon

a horde gets in at
Canning town
all
heading in to
London,
what's this town got?

one more lot
probably a parking lot
at a superstore.

Bond street beckons and
I reckon
all things considered l
that I'll get off there
head
once again to
Soho Square

it's where I belong
where I fit in.


My foundations are floating timbers
moving with the times.

nearly there
it's almost always nearly
there or near enough
and near enough is
good enough for me.

Listening to the *******
while
chewing over the horsemeat
fed to me by the superstore,
what more
could a dog want
but a dog's life.

underneath the spectrograph
you have to laugh,
not least because there's
nothing else to do.

Friday's a sly day
luring you in
and
spitting you out
on Saturday morning
wondering
where you can be.

Queueing up to queue to get to
the front of the queue and they're
all behind you just to remind you
that they are queueing up too,

the lines are never ending
the queues are always forming.

We've become a production
a Cecil B DeMille,
'The whispering chorus'
of wannabees,
most of us
over the hill.

Friends took me to the superstore
of clothing jewelry and more
and said "Look 'round and take your pick"
I said: "You'll think me very thick
but how can I decide to buy
when racks of clothes urge me to try?
There's too much choice, I'm overcome
Decision made- Please take me home"

.


Blame it on society or
the council housing policy,

my eyes meet only strangers
on the High street and the Broadway
who are doing it the only way they can.

The man who's on a mission
going fishin' or just drowning
in the goods they have on offer
at the local poundland superstore

More to draw on when they're starving
or when
carving out a better future
each man an artisan in
search of better times.

At the high street cut price superstore
looking at Christmas stuff and it's a bore,
not halfway through October and we're
all being overrun with Santa and his
bags of fun
they're taking ****** liberties
with Christmas and its festivities,
if it was up to some
they'd have it as soon as
Easter had gone
but it's all about the cash,
money in the till
and
nothing to do with Jesus
stuck on a cross
at the top of that hill.